


Haute Couture

by Gigi_Sinclair



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-16
Updated: 2013-03-16
Packaged: 2017-12-05 11:51:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/722986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gigi_Sinclair/pseuds/Gigi_Sinclair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas loved beautiful clothes, on himself and on other people. He loved the cut, the colour, the lines. He was as bad as the Dowager sometimes, longing for the good old days when people knew how to dress. Men and women both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Haute Couture

**Author's Note:**

> Includes cross dressing and a mention of rape fantasy (not enacted.)

Exhaustion, which had been threatening to overtake Thomas all day, finally succeeded as he climbed the stairs to his room. His head ached, a dull, pounding sensation that began behind his eyes and radiated through his skull, even down his neck to his shoulders. His feet were sore, as if he'd run a hundred miles, and if he had to write anything else, sign even one more delivery slip or make even one more note in the accounting ledger, he swore he would be permanently crippled in both hands, rather than just the one. 

The family were in London, which meant, in theory, things should be easier. In practice, it meant that Mr. Carson had taken the opportunity to slip away on some unspecified personal errand. “I'll be gone for two days, at the absolute maximum,” he'd said, as they waited for the car to take him to the station. “I trust the house will still be standing upon my return.” He didn't look as though he trusted any such thing. Thomas saw him look back at Downton as the car pulled away, his face full of emotion, as if he were seeing it for the last time. 

With Carson away, Thomas should have been head of the household. Mrs. Hughes actually held this position, and everyone knew it. She did have the good grace to add, “If you agree, Mr. Barrow?” to the end of all her directives, although no one believed it was anything but a rhetorical question. She was so kind about it, and she had helped Thomas so much in the past, Thomas couldn't bring himself to be irritated. Still, it proved what he'd always suspected: as long as he was at Downton, he would always play second fiddle to someone.

When he finally got upstairs, after midnight and well after the rest of them had gone up, Thomas was tired, and he was frustrated. When he opened the door to his room and found Jimmy lying in his bed, he was more annoyed than he would ever have believed possible.

A few months earlier, he would have chewed broken glass to get Jimmy to look at him with anything other than contempt. He would have braved the savage tribes of darkest Hindustan for a smile. He would have trekked to the North Pole for a kind word. He would have slain beasts of Brobdingnagian proportions for a kiss. Now, Jimmy gave him all of these things as a matter of course, no such effort required. Jimmy had never, it transpired, been against the idea of a dalliance with a man, per se, but rather against the idea of a dalliance with Thomas. While this had hurt Thomas even more, initially--“I only like women” was, after all, a bit easier to take than “I don't like you”--it meant he was at least afforded a chance to change Jimmy's mind. And he had. He didn't know how, but over time, he had, and he would be eternally gratefully for that. 

Except for today, when all he wanted to do was sleep.

“What are you doing here?” Thomas snapped. He pulled his cigarettes out of his pocket and struck a match.

Jimmy grinned. “While the cat's away.” He had the covers pulled up to his chin, clearly conserving every bit of warmth in the room. 

“There are plenty of cats still here.” And it would only take one to finish them.

Resting the cigarette in his mouth, Thomas took off his jacket and carefully hung it over the back of his chair. He sat on the edge of his bed, pushing Jimmy's feet out of the way, and bent to unlace his shoes.

“Anyway,” Jimmy said. “I've got a surprise for you.”

“Oh, yes?” From the corner of his eye, Thomas saw the blankets move. He kicked off his shoes and looked up. Jimmy smiled back at him, wearing a lady's nightie.

The cigarette fell out of Thomas' mouth. It missed his leg, narrowly, and landed on the coverlet, smoking. Thomas picked it up, batting at the bed with his hands. The fire died, leaving a small, charred hole in its wake. _At least_ , he thought, mind spinning, _that was something he could easily explain._

This was another matter entirely. “Jimmy, what in God's name...” He had no other words. He was speechless. Jimmy's smile grew, and he gave a saucy wink. 

“Thought you'd like it.” 

The nightie was beige, a sort of tan colour, with black lace and beading over the chest and on the skirt. It was a poor fit for Jimmy, tight on the narrow shoulder straps and loose on the chest, and so short it barely concealed his prick, half-interested already and bobbing just above the hemline. 

Thomas didn't like it, not in the least. It was grotesque, disturbing, and above all, worrying. “Where did it come from?”

“It's Lady Edith's.”

“What?”

“Don't worry, she knows I've got it.”

“ _What?_ ” Thomas was going to have a heart attack, right here and now, on this spot. _Funny,_ he thought vaguely. _I always thought Carson would be the first to go._

Jimmy shifted on the bed, inching closer to Thomas. The silk rustled as he moved. He smelled like lavender, Thomas noticed. Like the inside of a lady's wardrobe. “Her suitcase came open as we were loading it onto the car. This fell out. I picked it up.” Thomas didn't know where he'd been during this humiliating little sketch. He thanked God he hadn't witnessed it. “I was going to put it back in, but Lord Grantham came down the steps. I looked at Lady Edith, she looked at me, and I put it under my waistcoat. Saved the day, really. She weren't half grateful, I could tell from the look on her face.” 

Thomas rubbed his eyes. He reached over, setting the still burning cigarette in the ashtray. “Grateful or not, I'm quite certain she wouldn't condone this.”

Jimmy shrugged, one of the straps slipping down his shoulder. Thomas refused to right it. “I don't know. She's a Bohemian now, ain't she?” 

“Take it off.”

“In a bit.” 

“Jimmy.”

“What?” 

Thomas didn't know. Jimmy edged closer, moving behind Thomas on the bed. “You like it, don't you?”

Thomas loved beautiful clothes, on himself and on other people. He loved the cut, the colour, the lines. He was as bad as the Dowager sometimes, longing for the good old days when people knew how to dress. Men and women both. 

Most of all, Thomas loved the way expensive clothes felt in his hands. He had spent countless unnecessary hours in Lord Grantham's dressing room, caressing the freshly pressed trousers and the tweed jackets and the silk dressing gowns. He'd done so even after his promotion, when his duties no longer required it, until Bates had come in and surprised him one day. “All right, then, Mr. Barrow?” Bates had asked, staring at Thomas. Another man would have avoided eye contact at all costs. “Just fine, thank you, Mr. Bates,” he'd replied, and left. He was glad it was Bates who'd caught him out. He'd probably assumed Thomas was just looking for something to steal. 

“Jimmy, I don't like women,” Thomas replied. It wasn't an answer. It wasn't even true, and Jimmy knew it.

“Not at all?” Jimmy's hands landed on Thomas' shoulders.

“Not for this.” 

“Never?” Not never. His earliest lovers, before the Duke of Crowborough, had all been married, and seemingly happy. For years, Thomas had wanted that. A wife in his house, for normalcy, and a boy on the side, for fun. Things hadn't worked out that way. It was hard enough, it seemed, to find even one person who could tolerate him. 

The hands moved down, sliding over Thomas' chest. “Just think.” Jimmy's voice was low now, whispering in his ear. “I can be all the men you ever wanted, and all the women you wished you did.” 

Jimmy could talk. That was perhaps the most surprising thing about him. Thomas had expected a stammering virgin; Jimmy was anything but. He was experienced, and he was good. Thomas sat still, frozen in place. Jimmy came around Thomas' body to straddle his knees. He wound Thomas' tie around one hand. The other he buried in Thomas' hair, angling Thomas' head up to kiss him. 

Jimmy kissed like it was the end of the world, or like one of them was going off to war. Without breaking the kiss, he slid off Thomas' lap, using the tie as a lead to pull Thomas down on top of him. The bed creaked beneath their weight. _One day,_ Thomas thought, _we're going to collapse this thing, and that_ will _be difficult to explain._

Jimmy caught Thomas' good hand with his free one and brought it up to touch his chest. The beadwork was intricate, a series of flowers and leaves designed to draw attention to a pair of breasts. Instead, Jimmy's hard, flat chest was there, lurking beneath the frills, familiar yet foreign. Thomas moaned involuntarily, his fingers passing over each and every bead as if they held a hidden message. Jimmy thrust upward, rubbing his lace-covered cock against the front of Thomas' trousers.

In an instant, Thomas was desperate to be undressed. So desperate that he didn't bother to remove his trousers completely. He pushed them down, along with his drawers, until they were as far out of the way as they needed to be. He turned Jimmy over, roughly, and reached for the petroleum jelly in the bedside table. 

“I'm ready,” Jimmy murmured. “I've been waiting a long time.” 

“Good,” Thomas replied, in a voice that wasn't his. It was too hard, too brusque even for him. He coated himself liberally and pushed in without further preamble, his hand gripping Jimmy's shoulder tightly enough to bruise.

Jimmy never minded rough treatment in bed. He seemed to seek it out, even. He loved attempting to spark jealousy in Thomas, often murmuring ridiculous fictions about fucking a visiting valet or inviting Branson into their bed as Thomas thrust into him. Thomas didn't enjoy these flights of fancy, but he put up with them. They didn't annoy him too badly, and they seemed to give Jimmy so much pleasure. The one occasion it had backfired was when Jimmy, gripping Thomas' hair and writhing wantonly against him, had whispered: “Oh, no, Mr. Barrow, please don't do this.” Thomas' erection wilted at once and he sat up, besieged by the urge to get as far away as he could, as quickly as possible. 

He fought against his fear and stayed, his breathing ragged and his head in his hands. Jimmy had sat up, bewildered, his hair askew and confusion on his face. He reached out to touch Thomas' shoulder. Thomas flinched. “We were only playing a game,” Jimmy said, sounding lost. 

“Not that one.” Thomas forced a smile. Jimmy had agreed and within minutes they'd been back at it, but Thomas hadn't been able to summon quite as much enthusiasm as before.

Now, enthusiasm was the least of Thomas' worries. Jimmy gripped the painted metal of the headboard as Thomas moved inside him, the nightie pushed up around Jimmy's middle, the silk plastered to his back with sweat. Forcing himself to stay quiet—never an easy feat, and one which was harder now than ever before—Thomas reached around, feeling below the beaded lace to take Jimmy's cock in his hand. 

Jimmy came first, one hand white-knuckled on the headboard and the other over his own mouth. His orgasm triggered Thomas'. Lights flashed behind Thomas' closed eyes as he fondled the lace of the skirt, as gently as he could, and pressed his lips against the back of Jimmy's neck.

A minute or an hour later—Thomas didn't know, and couldn't bring himself to care—he felt Jimmy move and heard the rattle of the beaded nightie hitting the floor. Jimmy came back, to lie warm and naked against him. Thomas noticed he himself was still more than two-thirds dressed, which seemed both unchivalrous and slovenly. He couldn't bring himself to care about that, either.

“Wherever did you get that idea?” He murmured, into Jimmy's hair. Jimmy rested his head on Thomas' chest. 

“I used to go with an old gentleman who liked to dress me up. Wigs, corsets, the whole bit. It was hell. But it drove him mad.” Jimmy's hand traced idle patterns on Thomas, from his bare stomach down to his satiated cock. “Guess it drove you mad, too.”

“You drive me mad, Jimmy.” He would never have said such a thing normally, would never have been so brazen, but this was not a normal circumstance. 

Jimmy laughed and pressed a kiss on Thomas' shoulder, through his rumpled shirt. Slowly, reality began to intrude, and Thomas sighed. “Is the nightie in a terrible state?”

“Not terrible,” Jimmy conceded. “But it definitely needs a wash. Don't worry,” he added. “I've got a plan.”

“Oh, yes?”

“I'll put it in with the things Lady Grantham left. The washerwomen will get a good laugh, and the maids will put it back in her room, where I can get it later. Or they'll know its not hers, and I'll tell them it's Lady Edith's.” 

“And they won't think to wonder why you recognize Lady Edith's unmentionables?”

“I'm a man of mystery.” Jimmy laughed. “Wouldn't do us any harm if that got spread about a bit, anyway.” 

“No, it wouldn't.” Despite Jimmy's mid-coital ramblings, Thomas wasn't a jealous man. He was lucky to get anything Jimmy gave him, and Jimmy gave him a lot. He never expected to have it all. He couldn't have it all. “Thank you, though,” he added, because he never wanted Jimmy to feel unappreciated. 

“I'm thinking of borrowing Mrs. Patmore's apron next,” Jimmy said, thoughtfully. “Or would you rather one of the Dowager's gowns? She's small, I might have trouble squeezing in, but I could cut back on the pastries for a few days.” The idea was more alluring than Thomas would ever admit. He didn't reply. Instead, he pulled Jimmy close and slept.


End file.
